


Enough of a Hero

by bionically



Series: Unlikely Heroes [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: #TeamAphrodite, F/M, Fairest of The Rare's Love Fest 2020, Ginny does not, Harry behaves like a hero, Pansy rescues Harry, Post-Hogwarts, a moment before actual UST shows up, drunk Ginny, from a social situation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:46:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22789717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bionically/pseuds/bionically
Summary: Pansy's had her own problems since the war ended. Could Harry Potter be the one to help her? Does he have that big of a hero's complex? How provoking.Fairest of the Rare Love Fest 2020 #TeamAphrodite
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Pansy Parkinson/Harry Potter
Series: Unlikely Heroes [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1637329
Comments: 5
Kudos: 34
Collections: Love Fest 2020





	Enough of a Hero

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyKenz347](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKenz347/gifts).



> briefly beta'd by disenchantedglow. lots of love to that girl.
> 
> Prompt: Harry/Pansy  
> Sorry, I didn't put ANY smut in this. 😔 There just didn't seem enough time to work up to it.
> 
> This is Part II of the Heroes series.

Pansy still remembered stalking out of the Great Hall after McGonagall banished all the Slytherins from the room. 

She had tossed her hair and led the way down to the dungeons as though she hadn’t a care in the world, but the mutterings behind her back secretly made her apprehensive that she would receive a hard push at any moment to send her tumbling down the hard stone stairs.

Once inside the dorm, she had whirled and crossed her arms over her chest. She glared at them all, huddled figures staring accusingly at her. “What? We were all thinking it. If you didn’t want to be sent to the dorms, _you_ could have spoken up for yourself.”

A few feet shuffled miserably on the flagstones. Some shifted uneasily. It was Daphne who spoke up for her; good old Daphne. “I imagine we’re much safer down here than up there, when it comes down to it.”

“Let them fight it out for themselves.” That belonged to a fifth year boy Pansy recognized as being the leader of his group. 

“ _Pansy_ saved us from the fighting,” someone else said. “That’s why she was a Prefect, you know.”

“Where’s Draco—and Greg? And Vincent?” Millicent asked suddenly. They all looked around. There was no point in asking where Theo went. Nobody ever knew.

They all looked in unison at the door to the dorm. The person closest to it tried to push it open, but it was locked and barred. A silence fell over the room again.

“You don’t think _Draco_ went to fight...for _them_ , do you?”

Nobody wanted to ask who the _them_ was. Either way, it didn’t spell a good end for them. Pansy tried not to think of it. She tried not to think of Harry Potter’s mangled body and Death Eaters storming the castle, just as they had at the end of the previous year. He had survived an encounter the year before. Surely he would again—wouldn’t he?

She tried not to think about a lot of things that day, and in the days that followed.

* * *

She had been right about Harry Potter being the sainted Chosen One, although nobody would ever believe her if she tried to convince them of it now. All she would probably be known for would be “the girl who tried to give up Harry Potter to Voldemort.” The last thing Pansy wanted to do was run into Potter at the Charity Ball for Widows and Orphans.

It was, unfortunately, not at all out of the ordinary to encounter Harry Potter at _any_ event. He was the _it_ flavour for the century. 

Pansy should have left immediately when the reporter started to hassle him, but it was a vicarious thrill to see him get that particular look on his face when confronted with people and situations he wasn’t certain about. Twenty years old and the national saviour, and the man still wore his emotions on his sleeve for everyone to see. Pansy especially liked that little widening of his eyes and the awkward shunt of his head when someone leaned too eagerly towards him.

“Well, I...that is, I think you’d be better off asking someone who knows about this more. Er, Hermione maybe,” Potter was saying, looking frantically around. 

Pansy couldn’t help a little smirk as he pressed further into the potted plant next to the balcony. She swirled her drink in the glass. Sweet vicarious living. 

“Well, _no_ ,” said the intrepid and very determined reporter. “I think what the world really wants is to hear the story of the _hero_ , don’t you?”

Pansy wondered why Potter was even giving the reporter the time of the day. The reporter was no Rita Skeeter, but he was plenty pushy all the same, and he looked just a little young for the job. He actually looked like he ought still be in school, like he hadn’t even started shaving yet. She remembered another slew of annoying reporter wannabes who followed Potter around in school as though they were led around on a leash.

“Didn’t you hear? He doesn’t want to _talk_ about it,” Pansy said in her most acerbic, italic voice. She had learned from the best. Mrs. Parkinson could italicise any word into an insult.

They were both startled at her presence, and Pansy rolled her eyes. Some hero, who could be taken off-guard by the appearance of a woman dressed to the nines at a charity ball. _Very_ Auror-like behaviour. 

She sauntered forward, carrying her wineglass with her. She continued walking forward until the reporter was forced to back down or risk being splashed by wine. She had no qualms on using her body and her skimpy attire to force the reporter to retreat. “Frankly,” she said, swinging her wineglass in a wide half circle that made the reporter lurch backwards. “We’re all sick to death of hearing about Potter. So, come up with something actually newsworthy, can’t you? That is, if you’re actually a reporter and not a lovesick fanboy.”

Most people were taken off guard by such a direct attack, and the reporter was no exception. Pansy hadn't reckoned on his determination, however. He blinked twice at her--not even noticing the deep shadows of her cleavage--before turning back to Potter. She would have felt snubbed if she hadn’t at a glance relegated him to one of Potter’s slavering fans.

“Um, Mr. Potter—”

“Actually, you know what?” Potter said. “She’s right. I don’t think that I’m newsworthy, so if you don’t mind—”

“But—but—” the reporter floundered, a bequilled hand out to stop Potter from leaving. “She’s—wait, aren’t you Pansy Parkinson, the—the…”

“The woman who tried to sell Harry Potter out to Voldemort?” Pansy finished for the reporter. She took a long sip of her drink before she bared her teeth to him. “Who is still roaming the streets as a free woman?” She made sure to flash the inside of her pristine, white wrist, adorned only by a bracelet dangling with a skull charm. “I am. So... _scram_.” In tandem with her command, the skull’s eyes flashed green.

The reporter’s bravery really knew no bounds. Despite Pansy's intimidating expression, and she knew from experience that it could make men urinate themselves, he still cast one last longing look at Potter. Seeing that his quarry did not appear to be leaving Pansy’s sphere of influence any time soon, he finally muttered, "I'll, er, speak to you later, Mr Potter." He gulped at the expression on Pansy's face before scurrying off.

Pansy took another drink before she turned on Potter. “You’re welcome,” she said, and would have turned to go herself if he hadn’t stopped her.

“Er, thank you,” he said, in a tone that was surprisingly free of malice and judgement.

“I suppose we all have _you_ to thank, after all. For all this.” Pansy gestured idly at the inside of the ballroom, a hastily erected monument in the largest empty area of Diagon Alley, where once a small park resided. Her remark, like everything she said, was suitably double-edged. No one would ever accuse Pansy of simpering out a simple thanks.

Still Potter seemed in no hurry to leave the periphery of the potted plant. He gazed around the room and scratched behind one ear. Pansy eyed his hair, which remained standing upright after his hand had retreated. “Ha. I know,” he said. “It’s a bit much, right?”

Pansy stared at him for a second longer before turning away. 

“Wait, Parkinson,” came his surprising words from behind her.

She turned, slowly and deliberately, raising both eyebrows at him. He didn’t speak immediately, as though still considering his words. His eyes dropped and she could tell the moment he caught sight of her low decolletage. Pureblood wardrobe for the women was exceedingly bundled up except for the odd formal functions. Perhaps it was a throwback to the days when ancient rituals were all performed with naked writhing bodies, ornamented only with paint and jewels and precious metals. Tonight, the lace at the back of her dress appeared as delicate curlicues of black paint, and most of her arms and shoulders and chest were bared. She wore no stays, and her dress appeared to be fastened like a light robe, with a high slit up one leg.

It left very little to the imagination, and Pansy thought her mother would probably have conniptions if she were here. _Keep your face bare and virginal and your body left to the imagination_ , she had always said. Pansy had opted for the very opposite of that tonight. Her eyes were blackly kohled, and she had put sparkly eyeshadow on top of that to offset the darkness. No one could tell what she really looked like under the makeup.

The same could not be said for her body.

Pansy had no idea why Potter would want to speak to her, and she had no desire to prolong their encounter. She was seconds away from telling him to _shoo_. It'd be interesting to see if she could make _him_ urinate himself. He didn't seem like the type to be frightened easily and he had defeated the Dark Lord, after all. The thought was mildly titillating.

Except the expression on his face when he inadvertently glanced down her body and then back up again was priceless. As was the way he adamantly refused to look any lower than her chin after that.

Pansy smirked and saunted closer to him. “Why are you by your sad lonesome, Potter? Not enough of a hero for Weasley?”

They didn’t look across the ballroom, but both of them knew exactly what was happening there. Ginny had spent the majority of the evening being chatted up by one Blaise Zabini back from the Continent and looking very entertained in the process. Pansy hadn't missed Ginny’s frequent reproachful glances at Potter, and it was amusing that she might be the only one to have noticed. Potter was sadly oblivious.

Instead of responding, Potter cleared his throat. “Look, Parkinson. I know that—Neville told me that—that is, I know people haven’t been exactly friendly to you since...since that time, but I want you to know that I’ve told them—”

“To fuck off?” Pansy asked. She moved so close to Potter that she could see the gold flecks in his eyes when they widened. They really were the most extraordinary shade of green. If she had a pair of them for earrings, she wouldn’t object in the slightest.

There had never been any love lost between Potter and the Slytherins. To say that Draco’s enmity with Potter had soured interhouse relations was putting it politely. Not to mention the fact that the Weasleys hadn’t liked the house ever since they were conned out of their family fortune by a smooth-talking former Slytherin prefect. 

As to that, Pansy had only one thought: sulking was for pussies. The Weasleys could go suck a dick.

One flick of the eyes showed that Ginny was not unaware of Pansy’s tête-à-tête with her erstwhile... boyfriend? Fiance? Pansy smirked and flicked a fingernail across Potter’s shirt-front. His tie lifted and fell into her palm. “Are you trying to be _my_ hero, Potter?”

“I’m not—I’m not—trying to be a hero. At all.” He was stuttering, his glasses sliding down his nose, but he hadn’t lifted a hand to adjust them. Probably because if he had, his elbow would have touched her breasts. 

“Pity,” she said, and released his tie. “Why aren’t you with your girlfriend then, instead of standing around in dark corners with me?”

“We’re—she’s not—we’re on a break,” he said, and then shook his head. He looked dazed, and his eyes definitely dipped down to her chest very briefly before he turned his face away.

A _long_ break, apparently, going by the slight wistfulness she saw on his face when he had eyed her. It was a bit strange and oddly tantalising to know that Harry Potter, that little scraggly boy she knew and scorned in school, had _hormones_ like a regular person. She had been so used to seeing him as just that, _The Chosen One_ , that all other facets of him had been invisible to her.

Now, though, she was forced to take another look at him. He was still, absolutely, dorky. Those glasses? Really? And his hair. It was just asking to be insulted. 

But she wasn’t immune to other aspects of him, such as wide shoulders and long, narrow-hipped legs. The eyes, especially. If anyone should have been wearing Slytherin green for life, it was one Harry Potter. 

Pansy would never know what other ideas would have crossed her mind because Ginny Weasley suddenly came up, eyes blazing. She brought with her a group of her Quidditch teammates. Pansy recognised the types—they all looked as though they had hastily thrown together the first dress they found. “Hello, Harry,” Ginny said, pointedly ignoring Pansy.

“Ginny. Hey.” Potter adjusted his glasses and nodded all around.

“And, oh! If it isn’t the girl who wanted to sacrifice Harry to the wolves,” said Ginny.

Even Pansy was taken aback by Weasley’s point-blank attack. There was a startled pause, and then one or two girls with Ginny began to titter nervously.

“Gin,” Potter said. His lips tightened at the edges, and Pansy could tell that this—whatever this was—was something they had talked about before.

“I’ve come to save you from the Death Eaters,” Ginny said with a giggle, and then Pansy understood. She was drunk. Otherwise it was doubtful Ginny would be so blatantly flagrant.

Potter sighed and then he shifted on his feet. Pansy was surprised to find that he wasn’t edging her out of the circle, but shielding her? That couldn’t possibly be. “Ginny, leave Parkinson alone. She’s done nothing—”

“Yes, she didn’t _do_ anything, remember? She didn’t fight at all.”

“No, but sometimes it’s not always about the open fights,” Potter said quietly. “There are things you don’t know.”

Pansy raised an eyebrow at this. Ginny suddenly looked about to burst into tears. Potter sighed again and took hold of Ginny’s upper arm.

Just before he ushered his girlfriend/not-girlfriend away, he turned back and spoke in a soft voice. “You shouldn’t let people say such things about you, Parkinson. If anyone bothers you again, let me know. Yeah?”

The entire group started to dissipate after Potter led Weasley away. Pansy stood in the same spot, nursing her drink, which was actually watered-down gin. The one ice cube the bartender had seen fit to give her had long since melted, and Pansy hadn’t wanted to return to the bar for another tight smile and passive snub. 

It was—irritating that the source of all her problems now was adhering to the code of chivalry and attempting to right matters for her.

After a very long moment, she came to the bothersome conclusion that Harry Potter _was_ the Chosen One, after all. He apparently had a saviour complex and would even choose to shield lost causes like herself. Just as a much-touted hero would do.

How provoking.


End file.
